Friday, February 15, 2013

jaws

They make quite a jovial crew, the two police officers
and Ian, the man slumped between them. Ian is a crudely tattooed man in his
fifties, frizzy hair tied back in a pony-tail, the gold cuff-links of his shirt
unclipped, tie at half-mast, grey winkle-pickers scuffed and spotted, the
whole, sharp look liberally splattered with blood. When I open the back of the
truck up, they guide their unsteady cargo towards the steps, laughing, shouting
instructions, carrying on.

‘Poor Ian was assaulted this evening. Took a few
punches, maybe a kick to the head, maybe knocked out, we’re not sure. No
weapons involved. Up you go, mate!’

We help Ian on to our trolley, where he sighs and
stretches out.

‘Sorry. Sorry to be a nuisance. I hope I’m not wasting
your time,’ he says.

Apart from a few lumps and cuts, he doesn’t appear too
bad, but because of the head injury/alcohol combination we’re obliged to take
him to hospital.

‘There were seven of them,’ he says.

‘It’s going up,’ says one of the officers, sighing and
pulling out his notebook. ‘You said five a minute a go.’

‘I know who it was. Raffie and that lot. I borrowed a
pony off him twenty-five years ago...’

‘Sorry – what’s that? Twenty-five pounds, twenty-five
years ago?’

Ian nods.

‘So they come and beat you up for that?’

He nods again.

‘One of them had a riding crop.’

‘A riding crop? What’s he, then? A jockey?’

‘It might’ve been a walking stick. I was just out for
the night, you know. Happy-Go-Lucky, minding me own. And I pass them by in the
street. And one of them goes What are you
looking at? So I goes Mate?
Seriously? Have a nice evening. And I raise me titfer. Next thing you know –
Wham! Bam! Thank you, Mam. He kicked me in the mouth, the bastard – ‘scuse my
language. Look.’

Ian lifts his head forwards, draws back his bloody
lips, and drops his jaw.

It’s like peering into the maw of a Great White that’s
been dead on the beach a year, or the mouth of a medieval rat. To recreate Ian’s
mouth, you’d have to sculpt a set of gums out of pink sugarpaste, put it on a
compost heap for the summer, then press splinters of burnt and rotten wood around
the edges in two haphazard semi-circles.

‘Look’ he says, hooking a corner of his mouth further
aside. ‘Ah hink ah’ve lahst a carple...’

***

Later on in the journey he tells me about his other
injuries.

‘I was shot,’ he says. ‘Twice. With a thirty-eight.’

‘You were shot? Who
shot you?’

‘The police. Coming out of a bank, twenty year ago. But
don’t worry. I never used to go for people like you, honest people, people who
worked for a living. It was only them as wouldn’t miss it. I used to go into
the bank with a bag over my arm and say: Give
us all your money. And they did. But that one time, yeah, I got shot. Here,
look, I’ll show you. You’re a medical man. You’ll like this.’

He wriggles his trousers down, bends up his right knee
and then rolls out towards me to expose the inside of his right thigh. There,
mid-way – two round, grey patches of scar tissue.

‘Just there,’ he says.

‘Where are the exit wounds?’

‘Didn’t have none. That’s why they use thirty-eights,
see? They’re designed to rattle around inside you, like shrapnel in a tin can, mashing
you all up. Which is what they did. Smashed me leg to bits. Didn’t do much
running after that.’

Just to say I've been reading your writing over the last weeks and months and its brilliant! I always look to see if you've posted anything new and thrilled when you have. I don't post a comment on every piece but you have a avid fan here and I love your ability to capture scenes, people and history with a few deft uses of words. Amazing. Thank you.I also greatly admire the job that you all do. My father in law was a fireman and if he had to attend a car accident or such would always send up a little prayer when he heard the ambulance siren.Sally

His dentist would need more than a little white mask. A complete Bio-Hazard suit, more like. Still - it'd be an interesting challenge... :/

Thanks Anon!

I must admit I'm still slightly in awe of the FB. The whole bit - the whacking great trucks, impressive kit, the way they have their boots and jackets ready to go in the garage. I should've joined the FB really. So these days I have to sublimate by kicking in doors and climbing up drainpipes at the slightest excuse.